Home
by random fat echidna
Summary: Dean volunteers instead of Adam Milligan, a boy he barely knows, so that he can go home. Hunger Games AU. Trigger Warning: Suicide.


Dean sets one foot in front of the other, the leaves beneath too damp to crunch under his weight. Instead, they stick to the base of his boots and almost trip him up. The wet smell of a morning after rain fills Dean's nostrils. The smell calms him slightly and his shoulders relax, but the rest of his body stays alert, eyes darting from left to right, ears scoping the arena for nearby sound. He reminds himself that the clouds give him good cover and that this kill, in theory, will be easy. He reminds himself that he's here for a reason - he's here for Sam - and that he can't forget that. He can't forget that the people he kills don't die in vain. They die so that maybe he can go home.

It confuses him that their last words are always please. No, please. Don't. It's as if they think he has a choice. As if he wants to hurt them. He's like the rest of them. He just wants to go home. Go to Sam. They're just going a bit earlier than he plans.

Dean's fingers flex and tighten on the blade at his side. The gesture is familiar, the weight of the blade light against his palm. He knows what he has to do and who it's all for. For a second, in his mind's eye, Dean is at his house in District 1, running through his training course. He is going to do what he has to do. And he is going to do it the same way he has practised every day since he turned seven. Precise. Clean. Dean's father's voice echoes somewhere at the back of Dean's mind. It scratches against his skull with sharp commands; it reminds him what he has to do.

For a second, Dean doubts everything. He wonders why murder is a crime in Panem but somehow, in the Arena, the Tributes are exempt. For the first time, Dean questions everything. It's as if his actions are waking up a part inside him that questions his father's insistence his sons call him 'Sir', the wake-up call at the crack of dawn so he could get a long jog in before breakfast, the training sessions everyday pushing Dean to his very limit - everything.

Dean brought himself back to who he was hunting. A boy, Michael. District 5, Energy. Rumoured to be in a relationship with Five's female tribute, Luci.

Dean keeps a watchful eye on the surrounding forest as he approaches him. He is close. Drawing up his dagger, Dean bolts out from the cover of the trees, his shoes making little sound on the dirt floor. Michael tenses and spins around, eyes widening at Dean's approach. He would have rathered a less obvious run-up to Michael, but Dean takes what he can get. He doesn't mind doing anything when he's doing it for Sammy.

Michael raises his hands to defend himself, but any weaponry he has is in his pack, which is now left forgotten on the floor. Big mistake. Dean hits before he stabs, and Michael is sprawled defenseless on the leafy floor. He struggles and scrambles to get up, but Dean has him pinned down under his knee before Michael can pull himself up.

Dean's heart races in his chest and he wipes his free hand against his shirt, but he doesn't pull away. He's sorry he has to do this. I'm sorry. The words hang on his lips, but go unsaid. He's surprised that Michael doesn't writhe beneath his knees, or plead for his life. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth forms 'Luci'.

Dean doesn't know what to make of Michael's submission, but he takes the opportunity; it's now or never.

Dean draws the blade up and plunges it into Michael's chest. He feels Michael's body tense beneath him: shuddering and relaxing. A feminine shriek pierces the air. Hysterical: Luci. What has he done? Michael was somebody's son. Somebody's brother. Somebody's boyfriend. Dean doesn't hear the canon. He can't breathe. He needs to go now. Now. Now. Dean forces himself to stand and brushes off the dirt and blood on him.

He runs.

Whether he is running from Luci, or he is running from himself, he can't know. He slings his backpack over his shoulder as he passes it. It's heavier than he remembers. Everything is heavier than he remembers: his heart, his lungs, his feet. He has to stop.

Dean sits next to a nearby tree with the trunk supporting his back. He ducks his head between his knees. Dean doesn't realise he's crying until he hears someone approaching and all he sees is a blur of green and brown. /Don't show emotion in the Games, Dean,/ Dean's father's voice echoes in his head. /They'll know you're weak./ Dean wipes his eyes and shakes his head to clear it of his father's instruction. He shakes it again because it's not possible. He can't be seeing this.

Sam sits next to Dean, legs drawn up, arms slung over his knees. He's more casual than Dean's ever seen him, more at ease. It hurt. He'll never see him this casual again. Sam smiles at him. "You're not a bad person, Dean. You're only trying to survive."

Dean scoffs. It worries him that trying to stay alive isn't that high up on his list of things to do in the Games. In fact, it's right at the bottom. "I'm only doing this so I can be with you."

"I know."

"Then why does it feel wrong?"

Sam pauses, and it is then that Dean realises that he is doing it again. He is imagining Sam. He only did it in times of stress. This, obviously, was stressful. Of course the Sam in his head wouldn't have an answer to a question Dean didn't have. "I think," Sam begins, "it's because you need it to feel wrong."

Dean stands up suddenly, displacing the leaves and debris around him. Sam's truth hit him too close to home. He wasn't supposed to say things Dean didn't want to hear. Sam was supposed to tell him sweet lies. Sam was supposed to comfort him. Dean pulls his backpack over his shoulder and hitches his leg up on the tree, pulling himself up. He climbs up the tree, as far as he can, and sits on a branch. Dean closes his eyes, just for a moment. Just for a moment he can escape. And then he opens them and Sam is sitting further along the branch, swinging his legs in such a childish manner that Dean smiles for a second. For a second.

"I need you, man." It's more breath than words and Dean wonders if Sam heard. Who is he kidding? Of course he heard. Dean coughs, and tries again. "I just - need you." And it's then that Dean Winchester breaks down crying.

At first he's crying because he needs his brother. He needs his warmth and his words and his reassurances and his optimism and /damn it/ he needs his brother like he needs air and it's been two years since his little brother was reaped and all of a sudden Dean can't bear it and he breaks down. /Don't show emotion, Dean,/ Dean's father's voice reminds him. Dean shuts the voice down before it can finish the rest of it's sentence. Let them think I'm weak.

He's a mess. And he doesn't care that the whole of Panem is probably watching.

Sam touches him and Dean flinches. That's has never happened before. They never touched. Dean doesn't hear the words, but Sam tells his brother to quiet. Sam murmurs things in Dean's ear, rubs circles on Dean's back, hot breath ghosting Dean's cheek. Dean forgets that Sam is an image projected from his brain to cope with the loss of his brother. He forgets the day Sam was reaped. And he remembers volunteering for Adam, a boy he barely knows from his own district, because he couldn't handle life without his little brother.

He remembers and he can't help leaning into the touch of his brother.

This is all he ever wanted. He just wanted to be able to touch his brother: to hear him speak to him was not enough anymore. He needed his warmth, his touch, and now he has it. He knows it won't last.

"Sam," he breathes. "You know I did all of this," Dean gestures to the blood on his shirt, "for us."

Dean knows Sam understands. They both knew they were going to Hell, for a scattering of reasons. Even a twelve year old Sam knew it, and confessed it to his brother before his Games. Now Sam was there, Dean was going to do his damned best to be there with him.

"Can you understand that?" A nudge somewhere in the back of his mind reminds Dean that he isn't actually talking to Sam. It could be the Gamemakers messing with his brain. It could be insanity. Dean couldn't find the strength to care.

Sam shakes his head.

"I need you understand. I need to know what I'm doing is okay." The tears come again. Dean doesn't bother wiping them away. He reaches out to Sam and is momentarily shocked that he can touch him. Dean pulls Sam in by his jacket and whispers: "Please tell me it's okay."

Sam shakes his head again. "Dean..." he says. "I want you to live. Go and get a girl, maybe; what happened to Lisa?"

"I left her." Dean releases Sam's jacket and backs up against the tree trunk. The last person he wants to think about is Lisa. He hated that she took the breakup so easily. She was too understanding and offered her shoulder to him if he needed. He wanted a fight. He wanted a distraction. He didn't want understanding and pitying eyes. He doesn't even want that now, after two years.

Sam shakes his head again, his hair moving like fluid around his ears. "All I wanted was for you to be happy."

Dean sighs into his hand. "Did it occur to you the only way I might ever be happy again is to be with you?" Not see you. Dean sees Sam everyday in his head.

Dean really just wants to go home. By home, he means sitting next to his brother, his real brother, not a photocopy. He's so tired of this argument already. So tired. He's sick of the world he's had to live in for the past two years. He's had enough of the world without his little brother and he was so close to breaking. So close to bringing it all crashing down around his ears. So close to leaving it all behind.

"What would Dad say?" Sam asks, as if it matters.

"Dad hasn't been sober enough to care."

Sam hangs his head. "You guys really went to shit after everything, didn't you?"

"You're my baby brother, Sam. I can't deal with not having you here. I can't-" Dean doesn't bother finishing his sentence. Sam knows what he means anyway.

"And you're my big brother. That doesn't mean I am going to kill as many people as I can and then kill myself so I'm guaranteed as front row seat in Hell, Dean." Sam pauses, catching his breath. "I need you to live. We'll see each other when we see each other."

Dean really wants to believe him, he really does. For the first time in their conversation, however, he is consciously aware that the person sitting on the branch in front of him is not his brother. Dean knows that Sam is most likely just a projection the Gamemakers took from Dean's brain, not the imagined Sam he was familiar with. They're trying to keep him alive so that another Tribute can kill him. Suicide doesn't make for a great show. Briefly, Dean wonders if they're broadcasting his conversation with Sam all over Panem. He thinks yes, because what else could be going on in the Games right now more exciting than a Tribute being talked out of killing himself.

Dean looks up at Sam, and Sam flickers. Only for a moment, but Dean saw it and now Sam isn't real to him. Dean was never talking to Sam. He was talking to a projection of him. He would never talk to Sammy again unless he joined him, in wherever he was.

"Please, Dean," the projection says, putting a tentative hand on Dean's thigh. "Don't. For me."

But Dean isn't listening. He stopped listening a while ago. Now he only listens to every other thing. He tastes the cool air, because he'll never feel anything cold again. The same with the bark under his palms, the sweat under his legs, the smell of rain in his nose. He's got to remember these things. He's got to remember them for Sammy when he meets him. He's got to make it to Hell and keep Sam company. He's got to make it to Hell so Sam can keep him sane.

It's with that thought, the thought of his brother, that Dean rises to his feet on the branch of the tree and jumps.

He needed to go home, home to Sammy, and now he's gone.


End file.
